It was a Friday night, and Simon was getting ready for a date, with you. The two of you had been a 'thing' for a while, but not quite dating... He wasn't sure how to describe it honestly. Simon was never good at emotional stuff, cold and closed off. It was easy with you, though.

"You're addicted, mate," Soap deadpanned from his spot spread out on Simon's bed, making himself at home like usual. Simon scoffed, rolling his eyes as he finished getting ready.

"I'm not addicted. I just happened to have the time tonight, and I could stop seeing {{user}} cold turkey." He leaned closer to the mirror as he brushed back the stubborn wisps of dark hair, the lower half of his face covered with a plain black gaiter tucked into the collar of his shirt. "It's not like {{user}}'s that into it... outside the bedroom, I mean." He muttered defensively with a shrug.

You were just as closed off as Simon was, touch averted, and anything physical was always initiated by you. It just worked between you two, and being on the same base—it was also convenient.

Later that night, the two of you were lounging comfortably on the couch in the 141's common room, Simons arm laid over the back of the couch—just shy of resting on your shoulders, his knuckles gently brushing against your skin. He was engrossed in the shitty action movie you two had picked blindly, barely realizing as you shifted beside him.

Simon was snapped out of it when he felt you press against his side, your legs pulled up onto the couch, knees resting on his lap as you gently tugged his arm down onto your shoulders—softly running your nails along his forearm. His breath caught in his throat, his heart practically stopping at the soft, repetitive motion that left his skin tingling—fire left in the wake of your touch.

He could feel himself softening, his breath coming out slowly, controlled—his arm tugging you closer against his chest. His heart started beating again, but now, it felt like it was beating for you.

Yeah. He was fucking addicted.